Unsettled
by alwayswithatoneofsurprise
Summary: On the good nights, Steve is ripped from his sleep, awakening to a hot room, his sheets damp and twisted, and his body coated in sweat. On the bad nights he doesn't wake of his own accord, no, his morning alarm rips him from his sleep, the sleep he cannot escape. Post-catws, Steve cannot sleep without dreams, and cannot dream without nightmares...


**...**

Each night it happens.

No matter what he does, how hard he tries, he can't escape it. No. When he is asleep his barriers are down, he doesn't have his shield to combat this particular brand of hell. The hell that resides only in his head, that he knows isn't real, but when his eyes are shut and he is vulnerable, surrendering to the sleep he needs, the nightmares come. Sure, he is a super soldier so he doesn't need as much sleep as others but that doesn't matter, he still needs sleep, he can't stay awake forever, no matter how much he may want to, may need to. No matter how strong Steve Rogers is now, there is nothing he can do at night, nothing but scream, his heart pulsing, his breath catching, his body shaking.

It feels so real, not like a memory nor a dream, the crunch of his bones, the gasping of his lungs, all of it is real. A distance part of him, tucked away in the corner of his brain knows it can't be happening, it simply can't be, but when the nightmare hits, wave after wave of it knocking him down he can't reach that corner of his brain, all he can do is well, wait, wait out the storm, wait until he wakes, Bucky's name on his lips, and his heart in his throat.

On the good nights he wakes as his lungs reach capacity, filled with water and he can't breathe or fight any longer.

On the bad nights he dreams until his alarm rips him from his head.

Whichever way he wakes, he wakes to the same scene; his damp sheets twisted around him as he lies in a tangle, coated in a layer of sweat, his cheeks tear stained and red marks on his arms and legs when he clawed at himself in some faint hope of escaping his mind, the one labyrinth that not even Captain America can free himself from.

The dream isn't always the same.

But it always ends up in the same place after awhile.

The pain frozen on Bucky's face as he falls, his arms flailing as his scream wraps around Steve, the scream that resides within Steve, the scream that makes his guts clench and his heart stop. No matter how they get there, Bucky always falls...

And just like the first time, there is nothing Steve can do to save him.

At first what followed was the helicarrier, the fight, him falling, the water filling his lungs as he surrendered. But as the nightmares raged on he was no longer blessed with ignorance, he had read the file, Nat had given him all she could on the winter soldier… hydras puppet... He had thrown up during the first few pages, and hadn't received the rest of the file any better.

The first time his dream took him there, a small part of him suspected he would be tortured just as Bucky was, and he accepted that, he wanted to understand, but no, how could his torture be so simple, it was his brain after all. It was just like when Bucky fell, Steve was powerless to stop it, he sat chained and squirming in the corner as they tortured Bucky, he could smell the burning flesh, watch as the Bucky he knew was extracted from the shell he was no becoming.

All recognition, all memories faded, the act of which was hard enough to watch, but that wasn't what made Steve scream, no that was how they made Bucky forget. How after years he simply accepted it, how he gave up fighting, how his screams became silent, how the rapidity of the rise and fall of his chest was something that Steve grew accustomed to... His nightmares weren't him in pain, no pain he could deal with, pain he had felt... No his nightmares were him helpless. Unable to watch as they ripped Bucky from him, from himself, over and over and there was nothing Steve could do to stop it. Sometimes all Steve saw were little snippets, a few minutes, hours or days, but sometimes he had weeks, months, years and even decades of Bucky in that chair, time was of no consequence, Steve remained powerless, utterly useless to stop what he knew had already happened...

The nightmares, the nightmares with Bucky disassembled in front of him have only been plaguing his sleep for seventeen nights, seventeen nights that dragged on, whilst still being able to feel as though no time passed.

On the eighteenth night, Steve is crying, calling Bucky's name, his voice wet and rasping, the name said like a prayer, the name that he knows Bucky no longer recognises, when he feels a hand on him, soft and warm, soothing as something holds on to him... Steve can see his face in front of him, his bright blue eyes and his unshaven face, his hair looks longer that it was in the 40's but it is his imagination after all, a small smile curls those lips, those lips that all Steve has ever wanted to do is kiss, but had settled on simply making them grin.

Steve shakes and the grip tightens, the tips of fingers digging into his skin. No words are breathed, Steve doesn't want this dream to dissolve, this one he likes, this one feels more real than the others and as he fades deeper into sleep he smiles to himself, perhaps tonight is nightmare free...

In the morning he wakes, his sheets are neither damp nor twisted and his body is missing the layer of sweat he has grown accustomed to waking with. Wiping at his face, his fingers come back without the wet residue his tears usually left his cheeks sodden with. He checks the apartment while the kettle boils, checking that nothing is out of place…

Everything is the same as how he left it, exactly and his heart sinks a little as he realises his dream was nothing but a dream, his brain finally gave him some peace, a reason to fall asleep again, because this time Bucky would be waiting, his fingers firm and his face forgiving and for the first time since the helicarrier Steve looks forward to sleep.

The next night, Steve is watching Bucky falling to pieces in front of his very eyes, and then all of a sudden, Bucky's face is hovering in front of his, his breath warm on his face, and his palm against his arm, the soft, warm grip grounding him. His nightmare dissolves around him, and when he wakes hours later roused by his alarm, he checks the apartment again, checking for signs of difference, and again finds nothing.

Five nights in a row he is rescued from his nightmares by a soft hand with a firm grip, and a small smile touching the lips of the man he loves, the man he is determined to find, determined to keep safe. Each morning he checks, he knows it's a dream, he knows it is, but he doesn't want it to be he wants it to be real, it feels real, but then again so do the nightmares…

On the sixth night, there is no one there, no soft hand, no warm breath, no small faint smile, only screams, only the terror that he had grown accustomed to being rescued from, but nothing, no one rescues him, and he is ripped from his sleep, his sheets damp and twisted, the taste of tears wetting his lips, and his body coated in thick layer of sweat.

The next night is the same, and the night after that.

The night after, he spends the night screaming he know he must have been, he wakes with his throat sore and rasping, and as he draws his knees to his chest he drags his hand over his face, the wet tears smearing as he tries to stop himself from shaking.

"I can get by on my own." He mutters to himself, his voice cracking, and the tears flowing again as he answers himself, "The thing is you don't have to."

He doesn't go back to sleep. He gives up after an hour, and heads out for a run, not able to being a single second more in his home, his skin is starting to crawl, and he wonders why his brain made up such a beautiful figment just to tear it away after six nights of peace.

The others must know, but he doesn't mention the nightmares, the sleepless nights, the terrors, so neither do they. Clint accidentally 'leaves' a box of sleepy tea in Steve's kitchen, Sam offers to stay the night, and Nat gives him a bottle of drugs but doesn't say a word, just gives Steve a small nod.

The next night he is screaming again, he must be, he wakes with a rasping breath and can barely speak all morning, even after a honey and lemon tea, his throat still burns. Red eyes and heavy limbs accompany him through the waking world, but that is nothing, absolutely nothing in comparison to what he experiences in his sleep… he is powerless, utterly powerless to save Bucky, Bucky is taken to pieces in front of him, again and again, his screams fill Steve up and tear his gut apart, but when the screams stop and the silence wraps around Steve, the silence is worse, the silent acceptance, the terrified look on Bucky's face gives way to something else entirely, a blankness, an emptiness that makes Steve's stomach churn.

The day passes and far too soon it is night, and he is has to sleep, he needs to sleep, and as soon as he falls asleep, succumbs to the heaviness of his limbs, of his head, of his heart, it hits him. The feeling is overwhelming. He can't stop it, he can't change it, all he can do is succumb to the pressure. Let it wash over him, powerless to change it, to prevent it, to save Bucky. He can't change what happened, he cannot do something that he never did. He never went to find Bucky's body, but Hydra did, Hydra found him, so each night, there he sits, chained by grief by guilt, powerless to stop what is happening just as Bucky was powerless, just like Steve once was and ultimately still is.

All this strength, all this power and he couldn't save the one person, the one thing that mattered most to him on the entire planet, on any planet. He wakes with a scream on the tip of his tongue, the sun is just rising, and he knows he cannot sleep anymore, not tonight, so he throws himself back into finding Bucky, the task that has accompanied his days since he was well enough to stand unaided.

**...**


End file.
